He looked at her sharply. “It’s similar to yours.”
IF SHE’Dtattooed him for real, he’d see how closely it matched hers. Livvy wouldn’t do his in watercolor. It would be sharp neat lines. The intricacy of the compass, though, that would be the same. “I don’t have a crown.” She’d left it off, finding it far too painful to put the numbers designating their special place on her skin.
“I love it. I want it done properly.”
She snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous for me to put some literal skin in this game.” He sat up, his abdomen muscles clenching and releasing. Not like she was noticing things like his muscles or his lovely smooth olive-toned skin or the trail of hair on his belly.
She averted her eyes from the bulge at his lap under the blanket. Nope. Not noticing at all.
“Come here,” he murmured, and she allowed herself to be tugged forward, because she wanted nothing more in the world than to keep touching him.
He arranged her so she sat astride him. “What’s holding you back?”
Fear and anxiety swirled inside her. “You know.”
“You think I can’t love you because of the depression?”
Her lips trembled. “It’s a chronic condition. I can manage it, and I’m in a good place now, but I can’t be cured.”
“I wouldn’t try to cure you.”
“You haven’t seen me during an episode. I kept those away from you before.”
“I haven’t.” He hesitated, looking out into the distance. When he met her gaze again, she could read his resolve and pain. “There are things you don’t know about me, too.”
“Like what?”
“My...” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “My father is awful.”
She made a face. “I know.”
“No, you don’t. No one does.”
“What do you mean?”
He ran his hand over his head. “The only ones who saw what he was truly like were my mother and me, and I guess Eve, though I tried to protect her from it.”
A chill ran down her spine at the dark, lost look in his eyes. “Did he hurt you?” The words were sharper than she intended, but she couldn’t helpherself. The Chandlers and Kanes might have been close, but it was easy enough to miss all the dynamics in your own family, let alone someone else’s.
She felt sick, imagining all the ways Brendan could have hurt his son. She’d borrow Sadia’s knife, and cut the bastard.
“Not physically. He’d yell, throw things. Belittle, manipulate.”
“Emotional abuse. Mental.” Still totally stab-able offenses.
Livvy unclenched her fists, trying to focus past her anger. Nico needed her now. Later. Later she’d hunt Brendan down and start cutting.
“Whatever it was, it’s left its mark on me.” His smile was tight and humorless. “I know I’m not good at expressing my emotions. I’m rigid and I have control issues. I want to do better by you, and I will, but I’ll probably slip up now and again. I’m not perfect either, whatever perfect even means. You’ll have to love all of me, just like I’ll love all of you.”
She ran her hands down his arms to his hands, capturing them in hers. They were strong hands, the fingers long and capable.
You can be strong and have moments of incredible despair. Those moments are not weaknesses. They are simply moments. And they are not you.
He interlaced his fingers with hers, squeezing tight. “I’m not a prince. This is not a fairy tale. This is reality, with all its problems and hassles and issues and absurd family dynamics, and I want you with me. Honestly.”
I deserve compassion.
